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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281362">the slippery slope of soda bread</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecorone/pseuds/ecorone'>ecorone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Infidelity, F/M, fast burn, pining but fast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:20:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecorone/pseuds/ecorone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Saffitz is a pro in front of the test kitchen cameras. She’s well-spoken, engaging and relatable. No one knows her secrets (plural!), and it ought to stay that way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex Delany/Claire Saffitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. in great haste</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderdameron/gifts">halfsour (commanderdameron)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>unlike claire i have minimal interest in research so... food will be vaguely made and have no tie to canonical videos or recipes. and the anachronisms will be delicious</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire Saffitz is a pro in front of the test kitchen cameras. She’s well-spoken, engaging and relatable. No one knows her secrets (plural!), and it ought to stay that way. </p><p>One secret: no matter how comfortable she is with the specific Gourmet Makes challenge, there’s always an undercurrent of nerves—the inherent stress of being watched, braided together with a natal fear of failure. At no point does she ever fully relax in view of the camera. Even the most successful of days, she goes home marveling that she got away with it, again.</p><p>Another secret: she’s not always as self-sufficient as she wants everyone to believe. Some days, she gets trapped in eddies of analysis. Circling around and around a doomed idea. Unable to escape without the help of a friend. Everyone there has good intentions and valuable knowledge, but not everyone <i>gets</i> what she needs in any given snapshot of time. Those needs which are quite fluid.</p><p>And maybe those secrets are only secrets to her.</p><p>And maybe there’s a certain person who reads her the best.</p><p>“Delany, I’m losing my mind.”</p><p>Alex Delany was already on his way over when Claire called. Driven by some sense she couldn’t fathom. “I sense you are losing your mind.” Arms folded over his button-up shirt front, he cheerfully surveys her setup: fresh gourmet chips and a library of seasoning mixes.</p><p>“Oh, this stuff is all sorted, actually.” She hesitates but only briefly. Some chefs named Brad Leone got away with telling irrelevant anecdotes—were encouraged to, even. “I’m losing my mind because of what happened last night. It was 1 am and all I wanted was to bake soda bread. I ended up placing an order for an Irish history book from like 1984—as in that’s the publish year. It was 70 bucks, used.”</p><p>Delany squints like he’s trying to do math with the numbers she’s presented. “Think I’m gonna need a little more context.”</p><p>Claire knows he’s most likely talking about her chain of events and not the history content. But do the directors? She glances up and sees Dan Siegel motioning for her to talk. </p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“You can say it, but you gotta be moving product.” That Dan’s got jokes. </p><p>Fine. Claire can move the hell out of some product. She gets to work, meanwhile subjecting Delany to: “Okay so, technically it wasn’t an Irish history book. It was a book of love letters. Have you heard of the Irish War of Independence? It was 1919 to 1921, fought between Irish republicans and Britain. ‘Republicans’ as in they wanted Ireland to be its own republic, independent of British rule. The outcome of the war was the partition of Ireland the island into Ireland and Northern Ireland, separately, which is how it is today. Ireland being its own republic, and North Ireland a region of the UK.”</p><p>(She vaguely registers Delany nodding along here—honestly, she wouldn’t have stopped even if he fell asleep standing.)</p><p>“Anyway, that’s just background since these letters I mentioned started in 1921. The love letters were exchanged between Kitty Kiernan and Michael Collins. I couldn’t find a lot about Kiernan which I’m mad about. But Collins was an Irish revolutionary and...I forget the title, but he was important for the war. After the war, he had to go away to London to help hammer out the treaty that included the stuff about partitioning—which is why and when he and Kitty started their written correspondence. Oh yeah, and they were engaged. So, the letters! They’re in the book I ordered, and I’m gonna be able to read them in like a week or two.” </p><p>Her chips are done now. She’d timed coating them to her history spiel (and perhaps was slow on purpose in order to buy her talking time). Kevin Dynia from behind the camera rig mentions the library, and Claire admits, “I got so excited I forgot that public libraries exist.”</p><p>Delany, all the while, is unexpectedly entertained. He’s about to say something, but Dan interrupts, telling Claire to review her final-version chips for the video. She’s extra off-task today, it would seem. Delany bows out, even though he would have been a fine candidate to taste the chips with her.</p><p>“I’ll find you later,” she calls after him. He’d survived her torture—he could take more.</p>
<hr/><p>After filming’s wrapped, Claire is somewhat regretful. It didn’t occur to her that her Irish history talk might get chopped up in editing. She hated the idea of the audience receiving an incorrect story—worse still, that she’d look like she didn’t know what she was talking about. She wonders if Dan regrets letting her talk through the important snack chip footage—and laughs to herself about it. They might not let her tell stories ever again. </p><p>All this on her mind, she almost forgets her promise to Delany. As soon as she glimpses him, she can’t stop herself from seeking him out. Fulfilling an unconscious need for comfort. </p><p>They settle in a spot by the window with less foot traffic. Behind them, the purple-orange sunset of New York in springtime. Delany greets her warmly and not at all like he’s trying to avoid another history lesson. It’s suspicious.</p><p>Seeming to read her mind, he offers, “I liked your story, actually.”</p><p>“Yeah?” If Claire’s happiness could emit light, she’d be shining through all of her face holes.</p><p>“Yeah. I forgot you’re a wannabe historian.”</p><p>Happiness, instantly soured. <i>‘Wannabe historian’?</i> Claire repeats, incensed. She has two degrees in history! Seriously, she can’t stand men sometimes. </p><p>Before Claire can murder him, his laugh comes out and shakes her good. “Relax, Saffitz. I’m kidding. You’re like, orders of magnitude smarter than me.” </p><p>Claire’s left sheepish. She can only smile and mumble about needing another round of coffee to understand sarcasm. </p><p>He adds, “Did you tell me all that stuff because you think I’m Irish?”</p><p>In her tired state, she has to expend effort to focus on the meaning of his words. “Didn’t occur to me,” she answers honestly.</p><p>“Good. Because on a scale of 1 to 10 of Irishness, I’m at, like, those freaky green cookies that appear in the supermarket in February. Y’know, over a month before Saint Patrick’s Day.”</p><p>“Oh my God, those are so processed! Are they even food?” She pauses, trying to decide if she had reacted in a normal way. (Another side effect of under-caffeination: latching onto the wrong bits of conversation.) Unsure, she tips up her chin and adds, “Although, maybe you’re more Irish than you think. Maybe… you could earn a single Irish point. By my authority. As a historian.”</p><p>“Interested.”</p><p>“Half a point,” she down-haggles, and laughs when he feigns outrage.</p><p>“How will I ever earn this half point… Professor Saffitz?”</p><p>“Umm…” Claire hedges, temporarily stunned by being called ‘Professor’ by Alex Delany at close range. Batting down the violent surge of emotions she can’t process right now. <i>Focus, Claire. Say something.</i> “Try me?” </p><p>
  <i>Oof.</i>
</p><p>But Delany—bless him—chuckles like she said something funny. “Try you. Can do. Let see...” He casts up at the ceiling, clearly winging it. “My last name. It’s Irish for ‘son of Delane’...”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“...who was a guy who lived… on <i>de lane.”</i></p><p>He laughs when Claire groans and complains, “I’m threatening negative points now.”</p><p>“Ain’t scurred. We’ll settle this later. Night, Claire.” He ducks out whistling some 70’s tune that’s probably fine. The image leaves Claire irritated, first, then guilty at her irritation. Didn’t they just have a heartening conversation? And if so, why does she feel like something’s been knocked out of place, like a library book in the wrong Dewey area?</p><p>Her mood sours further on the subway home. She’s minding her own business as is the rule of subways, when some weird man leans over and tells her she looks tired. If that’s what she gets for wearing her undereye circles proudly instead of concealing them, well—! Well, nothing. She’s too exhausted and too non-confrontational to tell him off.</p><p>Despite the frustrated malaise that dogs her all the way home, her dinner at home turns out amazing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>book referenced by claire - In Great Haste: The Letters of Michael Collins and Kitty Kiernan</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the secondhand gift of honorary irishness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Due to Claire’s erratic schedule, there would be no settling of points for two weeks. She thought-hoped Delany would text her about it. At least, their messages had moved beyond ‘<em>Are you coming to work today? </em>’ and into more interesting—still professional!—territory.</p><p>“Sorry I didn’t text you last night. I hit the bed and instantly knocked out.” Delany rubs the back of his head, ruffling his ruffled hair unnecessarily. </p><p>“Oh, me too,” Claire lies, waving off his apology. Her nightly routine never varies. She drinks a glass of milk, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed so as to lie awake for at least 2 hours. Every so often opening her eyes to cast at the dark shape of her sleeping pills on her nightstand. Thinking about her self-imposed limit of two pills per week, and if she’d really develop a habit if—</p><p>“<em>Oh Doobshlaney.</em>”</p><p>When Claire doesn’t respond right away, he repeats the strange phrase. He’d said something before that, she realizes with dismay, when she was spaced out.</p><p>Delany reads the sheepish look on her face. To her relief, he isn’t fussed. “It’s my last name,” he explains again. “‘Delany’ comes from <em>Oh Doobshlaney,</em> which means ‘descendant of <em>Doobshlaney</em>.’”</p><p>Her mind’s rewinding like a VHS tape. Which is to say, with whirring effort. She hasn’t seen him in borderline forever; plus she’s still under-caffeinated. Sip of coffee to stall for time—there, the scene plays back to her in reverse: green cookies, love letters, soda bread. “Oh yeah, that thing.” She frowns. “Are you sure you’re saying that right?”</p><p>Delany hands her his phone, source page suspiciously at the ready.  </p><p>“Ó Dubhshláine,” she reads off slowly. Resisting the urge to click on all the related links, she returns his phone.</p><p>Claire meets his eyes and finds him cheerfully taken aback. “You’re good, Saffitz. You should have my half point.”</p><p>In truth, she’d said the name pretty similar to his attempt. She just has a way of speaking that makes her sound correct all the time. The trick is to project authority and confidence. </p><p>“I graciously accept”—pausing for dramatic effect—“the secondhand gift of honorary Irishness.” She swears she smiled convincingly, but Delany’s looking back at her with concern, and she falters. </p><p>“You okay, Claire?”</p><p>That intense, radiating warmness<em> . </em>Some days, certain moods of hers, it was almost upsetting to be subjected to that. “I…” she begins, but her timer goes off, and the cameras need to witness the oven reveal of her revised batch of gourmet cookies.</p><p>She slaps the timer off; over her shoulder, Delany has already dipped.</p><p>Nothing a good insomnia-text couldn’t resolve.</p><p>
  <em> Kinda not okay. I’ve been stressed out </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Look who’s still awake </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, you are! </em>
</p><p><em> Deflection<br/>Why are you stressed out miss kinda not </em> <em><br/></em> <em> okay  </em></p><p>
  <em> My housemate is moving out </em>
</p><p><em> That’s not so bad. You’ll have the place to </em> <em><br/></em> <em> yourself. For like the two hours before they </em> <em><br/></em> <em> find a new renter lol </em></p><p>Claire smiles. It’s true—her landlord could sneeze and have fifty people lined up with applications in hand.</p><p><em> Wait you don’t have to cover their rent </em> <em><br/></em> <em> after they’re gone do you </em></p><p><em> Oh no we have our separate leases. <br/></em> <em> It’s just we had a thing you know.<br/>Roommate and me </em></p><p>
  <em> Oh my god  </em>
</p><p><em> Stop it you<br/>I meant she and I live well together.<br/>We have the same level of cleanliness </em> <em><br/></em> <em> which is the one miracle of miracles. Plus </em> <em><br/></em> <em> we share groceries and stuff. And she </em> <em><br/></em> <em> likes my cats and plays with them a lot. </em></p><p>
  <em> Sounds like a dream </em>
</p><p>Four perfectly innocuous words. But as Delany’s typing indicator flickers in turmoil, she’s curious what he thought he’d revealed. She’s curious if… well, considering she’s daydreamed about it multiple times, perhaps it could have crossed his mind a humble once. “It” being their equation together in a different timeline. As to whether they’d be good roommates, that was a big question mark. He probably likes loud music and not labeling storage containers. Then again, those things could be forgiven if… </p><p>If he was <em> good. </em> Claire’s phone screen witnesses her full-face blush. </p><p>‘Alex Delany not Delaney’ gives up trying to explain his last text, instead offering:</p><p><em> Want me to ask around and see if I can </em> <em><br/></em> <em> find you a roommate? </em></p><p><em> No it’s ok. I think I might know some </em> <em><br/></em> <em> people. Although I don’t necessarily want </em> <em><br/></em> <em> to room with a friend. Roomie and I </em> <em><br/></em> <em> don’t hang out much and I want it </em> <em><br/></em> <em> that way  </em></p><p>
  <em> Tell me why </em>
</p><p><em> ?<br/>Because I like my space? And I’m used to </em> <em><br/></em> <em> my current living arrangement which is </em> <em><br/></em> <em> pleasant. And I’m scared of change </em></p><p>
  <em> Ain’t nothing but a heartache<br/>Tell me why<br/>Ain’t nothing but a mistake </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Delany!!<br/>That’s it I’m going to sleep </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You don’t like backstreet boys? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Too mainstream for you. I’m uncomfortable  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Rude </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Also. Team NSYNC  </em>
</p><p>Truthfully, she doesn’t have much of a stance on 90’s pop rivalry. But she does have stock in being a contrarian. She types ‘<em>Next time serenade me with This I Promise You</em>’ but deletes the line hard with her thumb. Resisting another urge, one to look up a name’s correct spelling, she sends a casual:</p><p>
  <em> Good night O Duhbshlainy </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please dubhshlainy was my father<br/>Call me doob </em>
</p><p><em> I wish you could see how hard I’m rolling </em> <em><br/></em> <em> my eyes. But ok. Good night Doob </em></p><p>
  <em> Sweet dreams half point </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. a study in virgo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>updating hella early bc toniiight i have plans to hit the club and party with over 1000 strangers (jokes jokes)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire is miserable.</p><p>Her landlord must have reached deep into hell to pluck out her new roommate, Kay. Kay has converted all of Claire’s initial trepidation to fear and loathing.</p><p>She leaves passive-aggressive notes telling Claire to clean, but she herself almost never cleans. </p><p>She helps herself to, and moves around, Claire’s stuff. Utterly enraging. Claire had that rapport with her old roomie because they’d agreed on it. There would be no such agreement with Kay.</p><p>She claimed to their landlord that she was fine with cats, but anytime Claire’s two cats are around, she fake-sneezes and gives Claire dirty looks. When that still isn’t enough, she vocally complains until Claire locks the cats in her own room. So unfair to them. They need more space than Claire’s small bedroom.</p><p>All of these violations, plus more, Claire summarizes to her landlord. He does nothing, of course. She suspects he’s charging Kay more rent than Claire.</p><p>The last straw is when Claire starts noticing that her friendly little Felix runs like hell if he sees Kay. Messing with Claire was one thing, but… to think that Kay might have kicked or hurt her cat? Unforgivable.</p><p>Suffice to say, when Claire’s boyfriend offers to get a new place with her, she jumps at the chance. They could move up in the world, literally—he knows someone trying to vacate their UWS apartment.</p><p>The boyfriend: Stavros, Alexander. Decent cook; great marathon runner; thoughtful lover; restorer of old tech gadgets (his hobby); adorer of Claire’s cats. They’ve been dating for four months. Most people would say they’re moving fast. Her mother, especially. But Claire’s never backed down from her goals and desires. The way she sees it, she’s not getting any younger. If she and Alex Stavros are incompatible to cohabitate, best to find out now rather than wasting months or years. Like what had happened with her and her ex, Harris Mayer-Selinger.</p><p>The thing about the NYC dating scene is (Claire will tell anyone who asks, but no one does): there’s a huge trap. And this trap is called the illusion of choice. You tell yourself, 8 million people and a big city, no way I won’t be able to find someone. 6 million adults, x million singles, another number, another. The power’s in my hands; all I have to do is play the game right. I refuse to admit that I have impossible standards and will not settle for anyone less than a clone of myself. I refuse to admit that, even though I romanticize romance, relationships do not fulfill me. I refuse...</p><p>She’s excited to move with Alex. She really is.</p><p>Until then? She’s miserable.</p><p>She finds herself increasingly reliant on Delany to cheer her up on Gourmet Makes days. As independent as Claire is, she can only drum up so much enthusiasm on a too-early morning, in front of the camera, on limited sleep. And Delany seems more than happy to oblige, checking up on her at least five times per shoot. She’s come to treasure his little “wellness checks”, even if they end in her (or Dan) shooing him away so she can focus. That Delany Effect.</p><p>As to whether she should dial back her relationship with Delany, in light of her relationship with Alex… well, she knew Delany first. He’s important to her. Furthermore, Alex Stavros isn’t the jealous type, and he’s told her as much. By all his actions so far, that was the truth. </p><p>And so, she indulges. </p><p>A day without Delany passes by fine. Claire Saffitz gets it done. But damn if the kitchen vibe isn’t a bit too self-serious and her coworkers overly critical—even everyone’s sweetheart, Brad Leone. </p><p>Those little things.</p>
<hr/><p><em> Delany<br/>
</em> <em> Why did everyone call me Clear today? </em></p><p>
  <em> Dunno. Wasn’t there  </em>
</p><p><em> You know something. <br/>
</em> <em> Please! No one will tell me </em></p><p><em> It was a Morocco prank<br/>
</em> <em> Probably<br/>
</em> <em> He told me the other day that he’s been </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> on an outlander kick </em></p><p>
  <em> Outlander? </em>
</p><p><em> It’s a show about Scotland and history </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> stuff so maybe you’d like it. From a </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> book series too. The main character’s </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> name is Claire.They were just calling </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> you your name in a Scottish accent </em></p><p>Claire’s “...” indicator goes on and off, and he smiles picturing her trying out her own name. ‘Claire.’ ‘Claire?’ ‘<em> Claire.’  </em></p><p><em> Ohhh. I did hear some weird/bad accents </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> today. Couldn’t tell they were supposed </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> to be Scottish<br/>
Still I’m not convinced Chris is the prank </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> type. You seem to have pieced it together </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> rather fast. Maybe it was you </em></p><p><em> I see Chris a lot more than you do. I’m </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> a better judge of character. Plus like </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> you’ve just implied.. I am also the prank </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> type. Game recognize game<br/>
</em> <em> Again tho. Wasn’t me. Blame Morocco  </em></p><p>
  <em> I have some research to do... </em>
</p><p><em> While you’re at it could you cough up </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> some Scottish points? </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> I wanna be well rounded </em></p><p>
  <em> No Scottish points for you<br/>
Traitor </em>
</p><p>Alex Delany smirks. He could leave the conversation at that; it’s a sweet stopping point. But he can’t help himself. As a general rule.</p><p><em> Btw Clear<br/>
</em> <em> Did you ever get your Irish love letters  </em></p><p><em> I did! Loved every page<br/>
</em> <em> The book was in better condition than described </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> which was a plus  </em></p><p><em> Tell me your favorite michael collins and </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> kitty kiarnen fact </em></p><p>
  <em> Kiernan<br/>
Wait you remembered their names? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sure </em>
</p><p>Claire doesn't reply. No doubt she’d taken the question extremely seriously and thrown her phone aside to go review the book. Alex drowses waiting to hear back from her; his drowse turns into deep sleep. But in the morning, he finds a series of bright texts:</p><p><em> Okay so. After deep consideration and great </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> aforethought here is my pick:<br/>
</em> <em> First another guy you have to know. His name </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> is Harry Boland. He was like Michael Collins- </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Irish revolutionary, wanted by the British army. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Both Collins and Boland were pining after Kitty </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Kiernan. The British army discovered this fact </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> and arrested Kiernan. For three days they </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em>interrogated her about the whereabouts of Collins and Boland</em><br/>
<em> After this she wrote about the incident to Collins<br/>
But she didn’t write to Boland.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. to cry over spilt skittles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bodega Skittles are a risk. Sometimes they sit on the shelf for too many hot days and the Skittles all glom together into one giant Mother-Skittle. That’s why you gotta <em> feel </em> it out, Alex Delany explains to no one. That morning, he’d groped four Skittles bags to find the perfect one to buy. Still an impulse buy, he reckons.</p><p>And so he’d arrived at the test kitchen around noon in good spirits. He rips the Skittles bag open too wide, but it’s fine. It enhances the experience. We venture into the cave of myth and purloin candy-treasure. </p><p>“You look happy.” It’s the voice of Rhoda Boone addressing Claire. </p><p>Alex goes to find a corner, where he can mind his own business but not really. He greets Andy, who has a fragrant chicken dish simmering away. Claire’s film team is cameras off, on their speed lunch. All Gourmet Makes lunches were speed lunches. Claire herself is partway through a burrito.</p><p>“I am! So, so happy. My roommate issues are solved. I’m moving out of that place…”—Claire takes a breath—“...and in with my boyfriend.”</p><p>(By the grace of God and Ramsey Lewis, Delany doesn’t lose his cool. Not yet.)</p><p>“Ooh, yay!” Rhoda cheers. “Is this, um…”</p><p>“Not Harris,” she explains, smiling wryly at Rhoda’s discretion. “That ship has sailed so—like, it’s gone. I’m actually moving in with Alex.”</p><p>(Not yet, not yet. His heart might have stuttered, but Delany distracts himself with mental math, with estimating the average number of Alexes per square mile.) </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Alex Stavros. 5K Alex? He works in healthcare administration...?”</p><p>A different <em> oh </em> this time. “I remember him! Good for you.” Rhoda hesitates. Her voice gets quiet, but it’s no match for Delany’s sonic spy powers. “You know, when you said <em> Alex</em>, for a second I thought you meant”—</p><p>(Later, Alex will swear that his grip only loosened slightly—his hand, tilted by a single degree.)</p><p>Cue the sound of 10-20 Skittles hitting the floor. A drumroll to announce his foolery. The large rip in the bag was only part of the story.</p><p>“Oops.”</p><p>He looks around quickly. Andy’s there, eyebrows raised, visibly piecing together the puzzle. It would almost be better if they’d captured Delany’s mistake on film. He’d make a boisterous joke and get bleeped out in editing and strangers on the internet could laugh about it without context.</p><p>That’s when Alex makes eye contact with Claire. The furrowed brow—that could mean generic concern—but the round <em> o </em>of her mouth says otherwise. RIP Delany. Game over. Insert coin(s) to start.</p><p>He decides, belatedly, to drop down and start picking up the spilled candies. Both Claire and Rhoda try to come over and help, but he waves them off in a daze. At least one of Skittles must have rolled under the ovens, never to be seen again. Aspirational. Snippets of headlines fly past his eyes, in the font Hunzi uses for those special It’s Alive moments. </p><p>
  <b> <em>#skittlegate</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>DELANY SKITTLE DROP</em> </b>
</p><p><b> <em>Top ten Delany freakouts </em><br/>
</b>(a numbered list that repeats “Skittles”)</p><p>A broom and dustpan startles him out of his thoughts. His sight follows the broom up its length to the person holding it... </p><p>Andy, to his relief.</p><p>“Thought this might, ah, speed up your process a little bit.” His dry humor lays an opening for Delany’s goofiness—Andy’s very generous, in that way.</p><p>“Oh, you know, it’s actually pretty meditative, picking up Skittles one by one,” Alex returns, grinning. “Beats any Sunday crossword.”</p><p>He accepts the gift of cleaning tools and quickly takes care of the remaining Skittles—keeping his eyes on the floor, all the while.</p><p>About forty minutes later, the coast is clear for him to do what he must: pull Andy into the walk-in fridge. He makes sure the door is sealed before turning to face him. Their exhaled plumes intermingle in the small space. Alex liked to think of the walk-in as a place where things <em> happened</em>. Not sexual things, necessarily. More like, a combination cinematic setting and safe space. Spill your soul to fruits and vegetables at 4 degrees Celsius. Maybe even have a little cry, if your day was going horribly. He was almost there—brought low by fucking Skittles, man.</p><p>“How uncool am I being?” he asks Andy. “Like, how super obviously uncool.” </p><p>“Uhhh,” he begins, and Alex is captivated. Only Andy Baraghani could make a filler word seem profound. “Honestly, I didn’t notice anything...”</p><p>Alex lets his head fall back in exaggerated relief, only to blanch when Andy continues.</p><p>“...before you did that back there. Then I started, ah, <em> reflecting</em>. You gave me context for past incidents.”</p><p>“Incidents,” Alex echoes, quietly horrified. “Context.”</p><p>“Delany…” </p><p>Delany cuts him off with a long groan. He’s pressing the heels of his hands into his eyeballs. The starbursts of light don’t judge him, at least. “Pack it up, boys. We had a good run,” he tells the light-bursts. He could quit; he could move. Back to Jersey, even. Anything not to ruin his friendship with Claire.</p><p>“Hey,” Andy tries again, to soothe them both. Seeing Delany in this rare stressed state was giving Andy secondhand stress. He reaches up to pry Alex’s left hand away from his eye socket, then repeats with the right.</p><p>Alex faces him, blinking as his vision adjusts. Andy’s starting to look cold, he notices guiltily: nose going red, arms goose-pimpling—although refusing to shiver. He makes a move to thank him and leave, but Andy stops him.</p><p>“Breathe. Look. Listen,” he tells him slowly, and isn’t satisfied until Alex repeats those three words and releases the tension from his shoulders. Lazy posture, restored.</p><p>“I won’t say a word,” Andy promises. Then, a devious grin sneaks onto his face. “You know I’m <em> very </em> discreet.”</p><p>That gets a soft “hah” out of Delany. It was true. He doesn’t know a single detail about Andy’s love life—only that it definitely, <em> definitely </em> exists.</p><p>When they exit the walk-in, Brad’s right by the door, good-naturedly impatient. “C’mon guys, huh. Been waitin’ to grab my radishes.”</p><p>That evening, Alex gets an unprompted text from Andy.</p><p><em> If it makes you feel better… </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> I don’t think Brad noticed </em></p><p><em> What’s that supposed to mean<br/>
</em> <em> Andy?? </em></p><p>But Andy doesn’t reply, and Alex is haunted for the rest of the night. His damned daydream becomes his sleeping dream. Claire feeding him off-cuts of pie dough. Claire scolding him for storing the tea infuser in the wrong cabinet. They’re cuddling together on the couch when the shriek-rumble of a fighter jet deafens their ears. His vision zooms into the aircraft’s underbelly: the hatch opens to extend a bomb that’s painted yellow like a huge lemon Skittle. The lemon bomb falls frame by frame; stop motion slowed down by a factor of ten. In the second-to-last frame, Claire is crying and clinging to him. In the last frame, Alex turns to shield her.</p><p>He wakes up with wet eyes and a plane flying low overhead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. wait but don't ask another guy i'll do it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex Delany has simple and good things to think about. The gig he’s catching at The Bowery this Saturday. The kickback his friend Dane back in Jersey had invited him to, next week. There would be, according to Dane, a girl he absolutely needs to meet (“She’s a dancer, Delany. She dances”).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his walk through WTC plaza takes him to other mind-places...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a distinction between Claire weeks and no-Claire weeks. Her energy had an effect on the whole test kitchen. She made everyone want to try harder and use best kitchen practices and follow all of Gaby’s rules. The Saffitz Effect got Alex, too. But there was something else, an added vibe. It was like, talking to her transported him to a different time and place. Their own private radio frequency, that no one else could tune into—if such a thing were possible...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He mulls over all this while outwardly jamming to George Harrison. Harrington jacket (thrifted), brown loafers (fresh). Complete with big headphones that make him oblivious to the world. Anyone could sneak up on his groove and mug him for all he’s got. Worth the risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So of course he’s startled by the polite tap on his shoulder. Alex pulls down his headphone band and faces—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saffitz.” The track “If Not For You” is still blasting from around his neck, and he fumbles a bit too long with his phone trying to pause it. “Either I’m late as hell, or you’re on time.” Nice recovery, Delany.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha, ha.” Even though it’s 9 am, Claire brims with midnight energy. She’s vibrant in her orangey-red sweater. Her hair is shiny with shower water and smells like green tea and jasmine. “I guess I was excited to wake up in my new apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Moving was a success, I take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah! Well. The heavier lifting kind of fell on Stavros and his friends. He wouldn’t let me help much with that. But I did pack and unpack and organize both of our stuff, so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>Stavros</i>, he reflects. The Alex of honor from Skittle Day three weeks ago. Delany wonders if Claire will ever again refer to her boyfriend as “Alex” at work.
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t texted you for, um, a while.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Definition: three weeks.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries,” Alex returns with genuine cheer, topped off with cheer he doesn’t have. “You’ve been busy with your move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not okay.” Her words come out with unexpected force, and it gives him pause. “I want…” She flusters, unable to complete the sentence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want…?” But Alex is merciful, and he saves her with: “...at least a growler of coffee, before you go in there.” He indicates One World Trade Center, the building that they still haven’t entered. Claire’s rare punctuality is almost neutralized at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I…” She laughs helplessly. Something’s changed, here. There’s a bitter afternote, even though she perks herself up. “I guess I should thank you for getting me to bite the bullet and, um, make that move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods graciously like he has a clue where this is going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember Gushers? It was one of my first Gourmet Makes. You were the newest recruit at BA. I didn’t know anything about you except that everyone obviously and instantly liked you and you didn’t even have to try. And no one gave you unsolicited advice about how to talk to the camera.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, it was a rough day for me. As soon as I could, I escaped to one of the empty conference rooms to have a break and hide from everyone. So when you came in and found me, I was a little mad since I was trying to be alone. I don’t remember what much of what you said, ‘cause I was kind of waiting for you to go away. But there was one thing that really stuck with me. You told me: ‘it’s too late in the game for small moves’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said that?” To Alex’s ears, now, it sounds kinda cheese, a little goofy. All the more reason to accept and attribute it to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you did. And, well, that inspired me. You inspired me. So, um, thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he’s still sitting on </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re welcome, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she adds, “Let’s make a pact. We both promise: only big moves from here on out.” She extends a hand, and Alex is even more thrown off. “Deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at her small, soft hand, and thinks about what it means to touch her. He hears himself say, “Deal.” Registers the contact of her palm against his. It’s the barest, briefest overlap of their two spaces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The touch severed, she declares, “Good,” like he’s a student who supplied the correct answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small part of him—the worst part—bears a crumb of resentment. Claire’s doing that thing again where she strongarms people into following her. She has to know how he feels, right? She’s hardly a careless person. Yet here he is, going along with this and other stupid games, because maybe this is the max. The most Claire he’ll ever get, is her standing there, beautiful and smiling at him like she hadn’t just cursed him with knowledge and smelled amazing doing so. Strangers swirl behind him, around her, a mundane rhythm. They have no idea how different their lives could be if they knew Claire Saffitz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, like nature moving in the direction of his own thought, a breeze picks up at Claire and stirs her hair. The sky’s threatening rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if reading his mind, she gestures flourish-ly to their destined building. “Shall we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The physical reminder of Work shoves him back to reality. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get a grip, Delany, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>All this moping and in-your-feelings is not you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With his best smile, he answers, “We shall.” He doesn’t offer her the crook of his elbow, because that would be weird and socially unacceptable. But he imagines that he does. Imagines a silly timeline where they can walk in together like that. And that’ll do for now.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. vodka, marionberry syrup, squeeze of lemon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rick Martinez’s birthday was coming up on June 15th, and everyone assumed that Claire Saffitz would organize the party. And she did, because a) if she didn’t do it, no one else would, and it wouldn’t be fair to skip Rick’s <i>birthday</i><span>; and b) she was not-so-secretly proud of having organized most of the past events, despite the minor inconveniences that entailed.</span>
</span></p><p>
  <span>The party was supposed to be yet another quick work celebration: off-key singing; cake; round of drinks and/or sparkling cider. It was Sohla who had pushed the idea to “push the party out of the test kitchen, guys!” She had been going through a West African food phase and, as such, waxed ebullient about taking everyone to a pop-up restaurant called CASSAVA. She’d also been optimistic that an off-work function would “unlock” more people showing up. Everyone who’d seen her at work that day reacted enthusiastically to her pitch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, rabble-rousing your coworkers with an idea was one thing. Actually assembling them, a group of adults, would never be as successful. Chris and Brad said no right away due to their young kids. Carla originally said yes, then down-haggled to “an hour max”, which later became a no. Priya was in Texas visiting family. Molly was also out of town, on vacation with her husband. Andy didn’t reply in the group chat—he could be very elusive sometimes. That left a medium-sized “yes” pool: Rick; Claire; Delany; Gaby; Sohla; Christina—and the dark horse candidate, Amiel Stanek (on the elusiveness scale, he exceeded even Andy). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the instigator herself, Sohla, had to bail semi-last-minute for a personal reason, Claire was understanding but also a bit miffed. It was always preferable to have a “second in command” host, someone who knew the menu and the surrounding area. Hopefully, someone would step in to fill that role. She’d handled all the other arrangements, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they gather on the night of, and the street-level temporary restaurant is lights-off and closed, Claire is </span>
  <em>
    <span>solidly</span>
  </em>
  <span> miffed. The pop-up restaurant had popped down, even though she’d called the restaurant yesterday to confirm that they would still be in town. Worse now, her frantic phone research is yielding nothing. Her present company, Christina Chaey and Gaby Melian, attempts to console her. Just then, a stranger rudely clips Claire in the shoulder, so all three of them shift to the very edge of the sidewalk, right by a fire hydrant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sooo,” Christina says. “What do we do now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As test kitchen manager, Gaby answers instinctively: “Let’s just wait for the stragglers to show up before we decide.” The stragglers in question are Delany, Amiel, and the birthday man himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be just us girls tonight.” Christina gives Claire’s shoulder a squeeze, trying to cheer her up. Claire smiles distractedly. She’s still absorbed in her phone and the doomed research. At least they aren’t waiting out in the cold—it’s a cool night, for June, but still balmy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets the mysterious restaurant’s phone number loaded, about to call again when a text chimes in. “It’s Rick. He says he’s sorry but he can’t make it,” she announces, brow furrowed. In the text, Rick had apologized profusely for the sudden gastrointestinal distress that made him turn around and go back home.</span>
</p><p>“<i>Tonto,</i>” Gaby remarks affectionately. “I told him not to eat the risky leftovers! But nooo, he had to have a little snack before coming here because he was ‘too hungry’!” (emphasized with air quotes). 
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it. Tonight is officially cursed,” Claire laments. Gaby and Christina make noises of motivational dissent, but Claire stops them. “Should we just go home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christina and Gaby exchange looks, trying silently to interpret Claire’s inclination and be in solidarity about it. When Claire’s stifled yawn breaks their stalemate, her two coworkers come forth with a murmured chorus of “Yeah, it’s getting kind of late” and “We can always reschedule for Rick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” she sighs, thumbs working away at a group message. “Let me just tell Amiel and Del”—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Delany calls from the other side of the street. Passing cars hide, reveal, and hide his form in the streetlight. He makes a sudden movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire starts, “No, don’t jaywalk!”—but alas. Whether or not he heard her, Delany’s coming over, crossing each lane of traffic with a cultivated nonchalance that’s equal parts South Jersey and New York. To add to her upset, he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing it. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dressed</span>
  </em>
  <span> dressed, whereas Claire had shot for ‘nice but not trying too hard.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany pulls off a final weave maneuver that would psychologically break the grim reaper, and Claire covers her mouth and groans. As if she needed any more stress tonight. Another loss: she forgot she was wearing a little bit of makeup tonight—her hand comes away with a faint print of lipstick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Delany says again. He jogs up to their curb meeting, sandy brown curls flopping against his forehead, crying out for their overdue haircut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christina and Gaby greet him normally, but Claire’s greeting goes: “Where’s Amiel? He’s not responding in the group chat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany does a Robert De Niro shrug to convey </span>
  <em>
    <span>dunno / weren’t transiting together / it’s Amiel. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Craning up at the ghost of a pop-up restaurant named CASSAVA, he goes, “Well well well, what do we have here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disappointment and betrayal, is what we have,” Claire answers, with the soul-in-despair face from her most tumultuous Gourmet Makes moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The start of any highly successful night out.” Delany grins, hands gesturing from inside his coat pockets. He’s giving his spring wardrobe a final sendoff. If it were any warmer tonight, ‘Signor Tartan’ (Allegri Men’s line) would have stayed home. “You guys weren’t about to give up and go home, were you? Come on!” Ticking off points on his fingers, he reasons, “It’s a beautiful summer night, it’s rare that we could make it out here together, I’m starving, it’s lower Manhattan, let’s party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christina and Gaby voice their upbeat approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not party-party, ok?” Gaby adds. “I don’t do that anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire folds her arms, a smile quirking and unquirking her lips. She feels herself trying to hide her elation but doesn’t know why. “Alright. We definitely need food, at least. Where to?”</span>
</p><p><span>Delany nods his head at the vacant restaurant. “We break into CASSAVA,” he deadpans. At Claire’s scandalized noise, he throws his head back laughing, and she joins in, too. “I’m getting a casual eats vibe from you guys. I know where we can get </span><em><span>the</span></em> <em><span>best </span></em><span>cocktails and kebabs, in the same place. Basically the only two things you need in life. And, it’s only two blocks away. Primo location.”</span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmmmm,” Christina vocalizes through her mouthful, and Gaby agrees, “God, I was so hungry. This was an excellent choice, Delany.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sensing the hole in the conversation where she’s supposed to join in, Claire opines: “It’s pretty good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty good?” Delany inquires, head cocked to the side. Generally, Alex Delany’s at his happiest when people follow his recommendations and enjoy them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, for bar food, it’s fantastic.” (Here she ignores Delany’s unsubtle look of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not bar food; it’s food from a restaurant that has a bar area.) </span>
  </em>
  <span>She smiles convincingly, or so she thinks. “Look, I almost finished my food”—pointing to her half-finished plate.</span>
</p><p>
  Delany nods in response, trying for <i>totally chill, not fussed</i>. So far, Claire has been doing this thing where she eats and drinks slowly—like, painfully slow, despite her earlier claims of hunger—while sneaking charged glances at him. It’s kind of a difficult vibe, since it’s electrifying to receive her attention but difficult for him to negotiate the implications. In conclusion: difficult.  
</p><p>
  <span>Gaby, interpreting Claire’s tension as leftover stress from the CASSAVA incident, wraps an arm around and leans her head on Claire’s shoulder. “My Claire. Thank you for organizing everything. Rick said it all looks fun and that he will come out next time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christina and Delany add their agreement; this time, Claire smiles genuinely. They send Rick another round of photo updates, adding to their earlier birthday messages to him. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Plates are emptied; glasses are drained. Gaby and Christina are visibly drink-warm and dinner-sleepy. Between them, there’s a definite vibe of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re heading home to knock out instead of going bar-hopping with Delany like we said we would. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claire doesn’t place clearly on this vibe-alignment chart. She didn’t succeed in demolishing her food like they did. The drink in front of her is still her first and mostly untouched. She’d ordered a drink from her own whim instead of going off Delany’s recommendation and received an appropriately bad drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Christina and Gaby get up to go to the restroom together, the table is suddenly very quiet. Claire’s ears and neck feel hot. She’s sitting beside Delany in the booth, with Delany by the edge. Without the context of Christina and Gaby sitting next to her, she feels extra </span>
  <em>
    <span>near </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Anytime he moves, she catches scent-waves of  orange pith and shower gel. So far, he has avoided propping his arm on the ledge running behind her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If he were to do that, though, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks,</span>
  <em>
    <span> it would really look like we’re on</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>stop, Claire!</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>a date.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Guilt overtakes her; Claire hasn’t thought much about her boyfriend tonight. She’d spent more time analyzing how, as the restaurant/bar got warmer with bodies, Delany’s shirt went from one top button undone, to two, to three… daring her to beg for a fourth. She flusters: tucking, untucking, then tucking her hair behind her ears. Avoiding eye contact with Delany, she forces herself to take another sip of her drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad drink?” he asks, amused. “I can grab you a different one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire grimaces through her swallow. “I don’t care. I’ll be happy as long as you don’t say ‘I told you so’.” And slides the glass away from her like she’s trying to banish it from her life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany picks up the glass and holds above his head, examining it like he’s a scientist in a stock photo (you know, white lab coat on, smiling vacantly at a beaker full of brightly colored liquid). “Vodka, marionberry syrup, squeeze of lemon. What’s not to like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The flower,” Claire answers. She shows him the decorative violet that she’d transferred from her drink to a napkin. “It smells super weird and made my drink taste weird, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maintaining the scientist persona, he takes the flower and holds it to his nose. “Dr. Saffitz, I detect no odor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire can’t tell if he’s lying. (He’s lying. The flower smells weird as hell. Might be some preservative solution on it.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smell harder, Dr. Delany. I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Delany (MD/PhD) inhales with comic exaggeration, then drops his hand to show that the flower is now stuck to his nose through sheer force of Irish will. “Truly, I smell nothing,” he proclaims, voice breathy from the sustained inhale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire dissolves in a giggle fit, giddy like she’s had three shots instead of a few sips. Delany almost loses the flower trying not to break and join in. He’s reached his lung capacity and the flower is </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> slipping—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DELANY,” booms a mock-deepened voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany starts, flower hitting his lap. He and Claire turn to the human wildcard who’d just ambushed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amiel!” Claire gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why the surprise?” Amiel jokes. “I told you I was coming.” He scans the present state of their small booth table. “I suppose I am a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit late.”'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As nice as Amiel’s company is, Claire thinks she’s about ready to excuse herself to go home, and here is the perfect chance. She opens her mouth to try, but Delany’s already handing Amiel the menu.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit. Order. Eat,” Delany tells him. Scooting out of his seat and getting up, he adds, “I know exactly what drink to get you, Stanek. Be right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amiel slides into the booth on Claire’s non-Delany side. Conversation passes in a pleasant blur. Claire can’t focus on what either of them are saying, having been struck with that sudden, overexerted-introvert daze. The instant Delany had left the table, Claire had deflated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christina and Gaby return to regale Amiel and Claire with complaints about how long the women’s restroom line was; Christina admitted she’d caved and treated herself to the men’s restroom (“It’s a single occupancy restroom! It should be gender neutral!”). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany comes back with two drinks, one for Amiel and a surprise one for Claire. Gaby and Christina announce they’re going home, leaving space in the conversation for Claire to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>me too. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The two words are ready on her lips, but they won’t come out. They won’t come out. They won’t come out. She looks at Delany and hears herself say that she’ll stay a little longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Her surprise drink: a mezcal and fernet little potion that’s both spicy-herby and fresh. The best thing she would have never ordered.)</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire stows her hands inside the pockets of her pea coat. It got a little chilly while they were inside the bar-restaurant—a mere assumption by Alex, since he’s totally warmed through. He has his tartan coat slung over his shoulder, and he’s happy, and Claire’s happy, so it’s a good night. Contrary to his Delany nature, he’s abandoned his desire to hit up more bars. Their restaurant experience was satisfying enough; plus, it’s getting late, and he doesn’t want Claire to be tired. (Amiel had been down as fuck to barhop with him but backed out at the last minute claiming he had to ‘go paint some houses.’) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Claire had found a less-busy spot to occupy on the sidewalk, a ways away from the commotion. They linger there, the last two warriors standing from the Martinez-less birthday campaign. A silence has fallen between them, but it’s an easy one, Alex thinks. This quiet is a respite from the increasingly noisy restaurant. In truth, he’s stalling for time. He just needs the smoky chatty strangers near them to clear out for a cool minute. '</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire breaks the silence with a dithering mini-speech: “Umm. I wanted to say thank you. You kind of saved the whole night when you showed up. So, thanks, Delany.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course, you’re welcome </span>
  </em>
  <span>with his hands. Sweet timing on her part: they’re briefly alone on the sidewalk. In a quiet voice he tells her, “I have a gift for you. Close your eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She regards him suspiciously, big eyes the opposite of closed. “Is it what I think it is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close your eyes and find out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shuts her eyes in an exasperated manner but leaves them shut. Alex takes that moment to just look at her. His Claire Saffitz. Her wavy dark hair backlit streetlamp-gold, intermingled with those strands of moonlight-silver. Smooth, pale skin... softly curved cheeks... sweet little mouth. Eyebrows, distinctively arched. Eyelashes, luxurious and dark—fluttering now, as he’s studying them. He’s been too indulgent, and she’s getting antsy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes closed,” Alex reminds her, but it’s for his own benefit. He’s stalling for time again, having forgotten what he meant to do originally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With care to hush his footfalls, he moves in close and reaches inside his shirt’s breast pocket. Claire’s breath hitches and her lips twitch in invitation. Fingers frozen, Alex almost falters from sheer dizziness, from this heady knowledge. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to, too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks at her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to take you in my arms and kiss you stupid. Want you to come home with me and stay there. Fucking hell, Claire Saffitz, I wish you were mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(He kisses her, in his mind, and that means it’s real somewhere in a better dimension.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex removes the pocket violet and, with the gravitas of a priest crowning his queen, sets the flower gently upon the top of her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Done,” he tells her. But he doesn’t really step back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire opens her eyes, at once registering how close Alex is standing. But she doesn’t step back either. Her fast hand comes up to her head and snatches the balanced flower before it can fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, ew, is this your nose flower?” Claire exclaims as he’s laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she lacks genuine disgust, and the flower remains cradled in her hand instead of tossed to the ground. The sight is so endearing, Alex decides not to tell her that he’d scored a brand new smelly violet from the bartender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhh,” he mock-whispers. “It’s me Irish blessing to ya. Very valuable. Don’t let </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> see now”—inclining his head at the group of people walking in their direction. Again, sweet timing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having gently placed the violet into her pocket, she plays along: “English spies. A whole herd of them. Well-noticed, Lieutenant Doob.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the English spies are just about to crowd them out, so he tells her, “I’m walking you to the subway station. Non-negotiable.” As a final indulgence, he touches Claire’s shoulder in a guiding way. Perfectly friendly things to do, you know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire replies primly, “If you must.” Feigned nonchalance ruined by the adoring smile on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex moves so that he’s standing beside her; in that moment, Claire’s hand twitches toward his—Alex holds back any reaction. By the look on her face, she’s relieved he didn’t notice. But Alex Delany notices a lot more than people think...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go, Clear,” he calls over his shoulder. He’d started walking just to tease her, since she was rooted to the spot for some reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hits a brisk pace, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delany!” comes her protest from behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delany looks back in time to witness Claire running to him. Really, just beautiful. He takes a mental snapshot and cradles the image as gently as Claire had cradled the violet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks extra slow, for her. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. but maybe someday when my ship comes in</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex Delany has a personal theory about summer. Summer is the season set aside for crazy wild things to happen. Even if you’re not in school anymore and well past teenage-hood. If anyone tries to call you out, you say you weren’t thinking straight because of the heat. However. When summer’s over, no matter how crazy and wild things got, you end up with a reset to status quo. Fall means your score is settled—or, if you’re of a mind like Delany—fall means your hedonism is forgiven.</p><p>That’s why he’s come to embrace summer even if it means a moratorium on Delany fashion. He’s not fussed about putting away his coats and boots and tailored jeans. He’ll go out in his dad-est of T-shirts and cargo shorts, with the energy to match. New York City in the summer is just fully <em> out</em>. Concrete and tall buildings trap humidity and sun-heat. Tourists clog the sidewalks. Sewer smell rises to wrap you in a hot trash hug. You breathe your own breath, over and over. </p><p>All beautiful things.</p><p>Summer is also peak Delany filming season. They do film year-round, but definitely most in summer. They’d wrapped one Trying Everything on the Menu just yesterday; Alex swears he’s still walking off the fried food. Once again he finds himself wistful about his time with Claire earlier in the year, at Balthazar on a February morning. Sitting elbow to elbow with her, sharing belly laughs. And her face when he’d pointed out the romantic lighting...! He’d been real about how well she’d vibed with the show—she’s still his favorite guest so far, by far. And he’d been real about wanting to have breakfast with her every morning, to which she’d reciprocated...</p><p>He goes around with one song in his head and a different song in his heart. Things are going well with his new… well, she didn’t have a title with him. His new Alison Argueta. </p><p>Alison matches his energy almost all the time. (He met her, as promised, at Dane’s kickback—a fact that pleased her, apparently, since she’d joked to him that they wouldn’t have to lie about how they met.) She’s (almost) his height in her tallest heels. She makes morir soñandos every Sunday. She’s been trying to teach Alex how to dance bachata, and he’s still just okay at it. Strangers on the street love to tell them how cute they are as a couple. Not that it matters what strangers think, but Alex takes the compliments in stride (and certainly doesn’t correct them for thinking they’re a couple). It’s the City—people talk so much rude shit—so it’s nice that they’re just nice. </p>
<hr/><p>Claire Saffitz is in a strange time in her life.</p><p>She’d assumed her breakup with Alex Stavros would be tempestuous. Not for any particular reason, mind. There’d been nothing in his temperament to indicate that, or she wouldn’t have agreed to live with him in the first place. Maybe she was just expecting the worst. Maybe, she thought, her rejecting him would bring out some hidden dark side. No man was that mature and reasonable one hundred percent of the time—there had to be a breaking point. </p><p>But the breaking point never happened. He still talks to her like an adult. And they’re still in the same living situation. It was as if someone had popped open their soda can of a relationship and left it in the fridge to go flat. She doesn’t tell anyone about their breakup, not yet—she’s not ready to handle <em> those </em>reactions. People pretending to be surprised at their breakup will only make her feel like a failure. Plus, Stavros supports her on the pretense. He’s a good person. It’s truly strange they don’t fit together. </p><p>
  <i>Regardless, there’s no running to Delany’s arms. He has Alison.</i>
</p><p>Despite all of this non-mishegas mishegas, or perhaps due to it, she throws herself fully into cookbook hell. It had been a cute idea: write and publish a book of her best dessert recipes. If her fellow test kitchen-ites could do it, so could she. As it turns out, she rather overestimated her own efficiency. She’s such a meticulous person that this cookbook will be an undertaking spanning years. People build houses faster than Claire Saffitz writes a cookbook. But she’ll gladly fall into obsession with this project. Anything to distract her from… other distractions.</p>
<hr/><p>Claire sorts through the display of ginger root with a discerning hand. Ginger wasn’t on her shopping list, but these are high quality ginger pieces, sure to be amazing in the ginger snaps she’s been plotting for her book. She selects a specimen—a big guy, she’ll need that much for her tests—and adds it to her basket. It’s rare for her to visit an Asian grocery store; if she does, she likes give her support to a local business, a mom-and-pop kind of place. But now she’s thinking it could be mandatory to come out to Koreatown for this H Mart. It’s her new favorite H Mart, way better than the one that recently opened in her neighborhood.</p><p>Moving away from the ginger display, she’s struck by curiosity. That tall head bobbing around above the crowd… brown curls… coppery facial hair. Looking unusual here but familiar to her. Shopping basket in tow, Claire weaves closer through the tight aisles. </p><p>There he is, picking up a rubber band-wrapped bundle of green onions.</p><p>“Delany?”</p><p>Delany turns around, surprise turning to playfulness as he registers her. “Oh hey, Claire. You scavenged me”—gesturing at himself with the green onions (they’re a versatile ingredient), which he then stows in his basket. </p><p>“Wasn’t difficult. You kind of stand out, here.” That gets a <em> tsssss </em> from Delany, which makes Claire laugh. “So...” She bites off a mindless <em> what are you doing here? </em>Because clearly, they’re both grocery shopping.</p><p>“<em>So </em> weird that we keep running into each other, huh?”</p><p>Claire returns his grin with a wry smile. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we work together.” Beat. “Listen, um”—</p><p>“Is this the chili paste you wanted?” Enter stage left: Alex Stavros, handing a small jar to Claire Saffitz. </p><p>She sidebars to him, “No, it’s fermented tofu in chili oil. Says right here on the label”—pointing out the small portion of text in English.</p><p>“Huh.” </p><p>Claire’s hand adds the unwanted jar to her basket. Stavros looks over, then, and brightly registers Delany. “Ohh, you.” Apparently not needing Claire’s introduction, he goes in for a handshake. “Alex Stavros.”</p><p>“Alex Delany,” he says anyway, in good humor.</p><p>Stavros crinkles a dark-eyed smile at Delany. Okay, so he’s got this Oscar Isaac thing going on. Cool. Greek Oscar Isaac in men’s athleisure. Nice. </p><p>Claire’s <em> escape! </em> vibes could start a small fire. Delany’s about to excuse himself when—</p><p>“4th of July plans?” Stavros says. “Claire and I are gonna have a little rooftop get-together with friends. It’s gonna be great. There’s practically a 360 view of all the different fireworks displays.”</p><p>“Oh, no St. Louis this year?” Delany directs at Claire.</p><p>“No,” she replies curtly. Injecting more vigor into her voice, she gives back to Delany, “No Camden this year?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Having watched this exchange cheerfully, Stavros puts an arm around Claire and tells Delany, “Why don’t you come, Delany? If you’re not doing anything. Bring a plus one, if you want.”</p><p>Claire opens and closes her mouth, words stalled. Visibly fishing for excuses.</p><p>And it <em> gets </em> to him like nothing else. Delany feels weird. He’s about to kill his own vibe in the produce section of H Mart with Claire Saffitz and her Oscar Isaac boyfriend as witnesses. “Sounds good, man. I’ll bring my girl”—staring pointedly at Claire.</p><p>Her returning stare is rich and unctuous with darkness. Abruptly she exclaims, “That’s a great idea! We’ll discuss the particulars later.” Smiling tightly, she extracts the fermented tofu from her basket and passes it to Stavros. “Can you please go put this back on the shelf, <em> babe?” </em></p><p>“I’m gonna go…” Delany begins, already turning around... “Look at dumplings,” he trails off in a mutter.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Pork &amp; vegetable.</p><p>Chicken &amp; vegetable.</p><p>Chicken &amp; pork.</p><p>Vegetarian gyoza.</p><p>Beef bulgolgi—really?</p><p>So many dumpling choices. Who knew you could buy all these varieties? Dumplings... dumplings… potstickers! What’s the difference? Potstickers...</p><p>The freezer air billows out at Alex Delany’s face like the breath of a forgiving ice god. Or something. He’s been standing like this, with the glass door held open, for the past minute, maybe more. It’s probably bad for whatever’s happening in this freezer. But he doesn’t care about that, or the judgmental looks he’s receiving. He needs to think about anything else. He needs...</p><p>Alex senses Claire before he sees her. Before her form shimmers into the frosted glass he’s  swung open. He grabs a product at random and shuts the door, turning to her when she says his name.</p><p>“Hey, Claire.” He gives her the same sweetly surprised look from before. Like this is where they ran into each other, like they didn’t just make that mess with Stavros.</p><p>Claire’s small, sad smile breaks something in him. “Hey, Delany,” she repeats.</p><p>Alex shifts the bag in his hand. He’s still holding the frozen dumplings, packaging material gathering condensation beneath his fingertips. “I upset you back there.”</p><p>“You did.” Claire crosses her arms like she’s feeling the chill from him leaving the freezer open. Softly she adds, “You can’t come to our get-together.” </p><p>“I know.” <em> Break, break. </em></p><p>“Not for Stavros. For me.” She takes a breath, averting her gaze. “I don’t want to meet Alison. Or know anything about her. I’m sorry. I can’t.”</p><p>“Yeah, no, yeah. ‘S all good.”</p><p>“Well then,” she musters, turning away. “See you at work.”</p><p>“See ya.” Remembering where he is, Alex lets his random bag of dumplings fall into the basket he’d set on the floor. They’re frozen soup dumplings. Fine, he’ll take them. </p><p>Being relaxed all the time isn’t really that fucking easy.</p>
<hr/><p>When Claire sends him a video of the panoramic fireworks view from her rooftop, Alex understands it for what it is: a peace offering. </p><p>It had been a long-ish trip down to Coney. As a young teenager in NJ he might have thought it was an overcrowded, overhyped place to go. But they’re making the most of it now. Enjoying the ocean breeze, the colorful lights, the collective happy vibe of the crowd.</p><p>“This is really nice,” Alison tells him from his shoulder.</p><p>“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m glad we didn’t do anything big.” </p><p>He almost did, though. He was <em> very </em> close to packing his place with his favorite people. His people would bring their people, and those people would bring their people, and so on until Alex straight up stops bothering to ask names. First they’d get raucous; then they’d rally for ‘adventure’; then adventure would turn out to be the same five haunts from their last adventure.</p><p>Maybe that’s just not it anymore.</p><p>When Alison smiles, it’s a preciously 22-year-old smile. Something to be cherished and protected. Alex had people looking out for him, at that age five years ago. But he’s doubting more and more that he can and should be that person for her. </p><p>If he and Alison had met as both 22 year olds, Alex thinks, they would have torn up the town. Destroying, rebuilding, and destroying each other. They’d be one of those on/off couples that their friends would get tired of taking bets on—of faking surprise at yet another <em> we’re back together again. </em> But oh how they’d constantly fall to each other, certain they’d <em> get it right this time. </em> They could/would even still be spending this 4th of July together.</p><p>The fireworks finale is as climactic as promised: blue and white and red overlaid in a symphony of engineering. Each time they think the show’s over, another round screams forth, thunders and blooms in the after-fade of the last.</p><p>Alison shimmies up so that her face is against his. Around them, phones are pointed up at the sky; people stir up applause only to be drowned out and heard by no one. </p><p>Alex kisses her through the explosions and remembers the reasons he likes her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. reason and reasonability</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex Delany is in a strange time in his life.</p><p>He’d heard that Claire had broken up with Stavros, but also that they were still living together. That got him all muddled. He decided it was best not to bring it up with Claire. If she wanted to talk about it, she could tell him. Claire was an intensely private person. That she’d even opened up to Alex in the first place was something special. Right? Nah, Delany, it doesn’t matter actually. <i>You have your Alison, so you can stop thinking about Claire so fucking much.</i> </p><p>Speaking of Claire… the way he segued into discovering their breakup was a bit shaky. He’d overheard Christina and Molly in the test kitchen talking about apartment-hunting. Molly was lamenting how hard it was to find a lease that was month-to-month from the get-go. Christina then dropped the little fact that Claire was on a month-to-month lease. In fact, quoth Christina, Claire had impressed to her multiple times how much she valued having snagged that kind of lease (“very insistent” was how Christina had phrased it).</p><p>So, yeah. All muddled.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>Sohla<br/>
You’re the voice of reason right?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I am?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I think so </i>
</p><p>
  <i>That seems reasonable. What’s up Claire</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I need help</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Wanna be more specific?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sorry was just thinking about how to say it.<br/>
There’s someone I’m interested in but our<br/>
lives keep not aligning and it’s driving me<br/>
crazy. I’m wondering if it’s a sign from the<br/>
universe that we’re not supposed to<br/>
happen. Like we should never overlap<br/>
or else we’ll be cursed </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Hmm that’s tough<br/>
If I were you I’d first ask myself: do I really<br/>
believe in signs from the universe?<br/>
If yes then your decision is easy. Let the<br/>
universe play it out<br/>
If no then the sign is not a sign of anything<br/>
except your fears. So then ask yourself which<br/>
you fear the most: admitting it to this person?<br/>
Never actually trying? Trying and failing?<br/>
And let that answer guide you. You know?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Hmmm. I guess I don’t believe in signs from<br/>
the universe. What I’d fear the most is never<br/>
actually
trying </i>
</p><p>
  <i>There you go that’s a start!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But if failing includes a ruined<br/>
friendship then I’m afraid of that too<br/>
Oh and both our jobs </i>
</p><p>
  <i>If you could magically wish away the romantic<br/>
feelings on both sides and just have an<br/>
uncomplicated friendship. Would you do it </i>
</p><p>
  <i>No. I wouldn’t do that</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Interesting</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I suppose that says something. Thank you<br/>
Also there’s other stuff not under<br/>
my control. Like...<br/>
He’s younger than me</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ah<br/>
What like two three years?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Try six years younger </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Eh. That still makes him a full fledged adult<br/>
Cmon Claire</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I know it’s not a huge issue. It’s just that I<br/>
have so many factors weighing on my mind<br/>
that I can barely tolerate more</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought.<br/>
At some point you can’t analyze anymore and<br/>
you just gotta go with your heart gut </i>
</p><p>
  <i>I really over analyze that much huh?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yes<br/>
But delany doesn’t so he’d balance you out </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sohla!!!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Hahahaha<br/>
Sorry I couldn’t resist </i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s not funny! How long have you known</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You basically just told me up there<br/>
Tho I get the feeling you kinda wanted me to<br/>
know..</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Honestly yeah</i>
</p><p>
  <i>What do you want me to do?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>As in?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I can whisper in his ear like Iago to othello.<br/>
But in a good way not an evil way<br/>
Or something </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Shakespeare!! I’m so happy<br/>
No it’s ok. You don’t have to<br/>
I guess if he brings it up you can say<br/>
whatever feels appropriate. I trust you<br/>
But he won’t so don’t even worry about it</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Got it</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Thank you Sohla you actually helped a lot<br/>
Not that I thought you’d be unhelpful</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I know lol. Any time</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You probably think I’m a horrible person<br/>
for pining after Delany like this when<br/>
he’s got Alison </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re not a horrible person<br/>
If anyone’s horrible it’s me because I really<br/>
really want to tell you to go crush garlic</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Crush garlic?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Never mind haha. Rooting for you</i>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>Sohla you’re pretty reasonable</i>
</p><p>
  <i>So I’ve been told<br/>
What’s on the brainy delany</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ha<br/>
Need some advice </i>
</p><p>
  <i>About Claire </i>
</p><p>
  <i>What the hell how did you know<br/>
Am I that obvious?<br/>
Wait did she talk about me to you??</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Smells like pine in here lol<br/>
You were only kinda before but now you are the<br/>
king obvious.<br/>
Secret </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re killing me</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The doctor is in. She dispenses advice</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Fine. I was gonna ask a vague question<br/>
but I guess I’ll just say it.<br/>
I want to be with her so bad but I don’t<br/>
want to fuck up our friendship</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The age old conundrum<br/>
Would you still want to be friends with her even<br/>
if you could never be with her<br/>
Basically forever pain</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yes for sure<br/>
Does that make me a whole dumbfoolass</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Not fair of me to judge<br/>
If you could wish to magically get rid of both<br/>
your romantic feelings and just be<br/>
uncomplicated friends. Would you?</i>
</p><p> <i>No<br/>
Guess I’m fucked</i></p><p><i>Interesting</i> </p><p>
  <i>Is it? I feel like I’m just contradicting myself<br/>
Wanna know the shittiest idea?<br/>
I think if our friendship is strong enough it<br/>
won’t be ruined by relationship weirdness.<br/>
And if it isn’t strong enough then maybe it<br/>
wasnt a friendship worth having in the<br/>
first place<br/>
Except I can’t actually convince myself<br/>
of the second part. Hence shittiness </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Human relationships don’t have to be<br/>
all or nothing/forever or never<br/>
Sometimes your life overlaps with<br/>
another person’s for only a segment. All you<br/>
can do in that segment is give each other<br/>
what you need plus room to change those needs<br/>
And maybe life moves you apart and the<br/>
relationship ends but that doesn’t mean it<br/>
was worthless </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re probably right</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Dude I’m the voice of reason</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The voice of reason has an agenda</i>
</p><p>
  <i>If she does it’s a reasonable one</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Fair. Thanks voice of reason</i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>on the 1% chance you have the same music taste as i do (🙄), this is The Playlist... masterfully curated in the sense that i snuck in a postie song. blame the yt commenters who keep saying delany looks like a clean post malone. good grief<br/><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3NDEv09iq3HOg5JsRMHJyq?si=bZOS3pwMT92sd2cq4FMpow">https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3NDEv09iq3HOg5JsRMHJyq?si=bZOS3pwMT92sd2cq4FMpow</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. no substitutions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They haven’t texted in two days. Because, two days ago, they had a text fight. It was Claire’s fault for starting it, but both of them had goaded each other on. And now, everything feels different. Even if they make up, Claire thinks, they’ll never be able to go back to that easy, simple place. An irreversible reaction.</p><p>The inciting event had been a coded message from Delany. On July 13th, which was about two weeks ago, he sent her a mysterious string of numbers and letters. Claire expected she’d want to solve it right away. Instead, she prioritized her cookbook dessert testing. When she finally got around to attempting his riddle on July 26th, it was a pretty easy solve. No Alan Turing Enigma-cracking required.</p><p>The solution staring back at Claire made her intensely and briefly happy. Bright as a flambé. But that shot of happiness finished with notes of anger. She realized she had been angry about and at Delany for quite some time. He was doing <i>this</i> to her even though he had Alison. She had done <i>that</i> to him when Stavros was a thing. She went back more than two years in her head and confirmed that she and Delany had never succeeded in being single at the same time. Delany was soft around the edges, and sweet, and thought the world of her. Delany’s chest was at the perfect height for her to rest her head, and she’d never gotten the chance...</p><p>Indeed, those were all valid reasons to be irate at him. Her life had been a clear running stream and he’d gone and churned up the sediments to a murky result. Claire was justified in her feelings, but not justified in telling him off the way she did. She’s been loath to open her messages app, because then she’ll catch a glimpse of their tangled mess of a thread. </p><p>What she keeps opening, though, is her copy of <i>In Great Haste: The Letters of Michael Collins and Kitty Kiernan.</i> There, she’s secreted away Delany’s violet. Dried and pressed, the blossom has mostly lost its unpleasant chemical smell. Claire keeps trying to throw it away; his little gift feels like something she shouldn’t have. But it’s still there, hiding between her two favorite pages. It’s still there.</p><p>She doesn’t know how she’s going to fix this.</p>
<hr/><p>They haven’t texted in two days. Alex isn’t surprised that it came to this point. There were serious bad vibes churning under the surface for quite some time. Claire was baking negative emotions into her food, thinking no one would notice, but of course Alex did. Meanwhile, he was making downer playlists on Spotify and either deleting them right away or leaving them secret. The chief soundtrack of concern, though, was his public playlist called “Text Me When You Get Home”. He both wanted and didn’t want Claire to notice that the love songs were about her.</p><p>And then there was Alison. Even though they’d agreed to keep things casual, Alison was starting to want more. And that made him the bad guy, because he couldn’t say the same. Which was why, two days ago, he ended it with her and told no one. She vague-posted about it on all her social media, blocked him, and that was the end of that. Just another summer fling he should have seen coming. </p><p>He’d hoped to smooth things out with Claire, but instead she came at him with some wild assumptions. Rejecting, too, his secret-code gesture from earlier in the month. That was his fuckup. He’d hurt her, made her feel like a toy of his. Not to excuse his own behavior, but Claire was doing something to his brain. She was making him care about shit he never bothered with before. So that was a weird headspace, frankly.</p><p>And yeah, they’d learned some things about each other. Like how Claire’s berserk button was the word “relax” (or any such synonym). And that Alex would push that button multiple times. Some of what she’d said to him… it was like she’d consulted with his exes for their expert opinions. And the rest of it was uniquely Claire. (Getting accused of “coasting on [his] charm and good looks” was, like, both exciting and super unnecessary.) All in all, he’s done and said worse things before, but never to Claire. That was a First Fight. And the first fight is always a Faustian bargain.</p><p>He doesn’t know how he’s going to fix this.</p>
<hr/><p>[excerpt of SMS exchange dated July 13th]</p><p>DELANY<br/>
<i>0974afe6691f997f2b0a5507</i></p><p>SAFFITZ<br/>
<i>Is that code? I don’t get it</i></p><p>DELANY<br/>
<i>You’ll figure it out. You’re smaht</i><br/>
<i>You went to Boston U</i></p><p>SAFFITZ<br/>
<i>I went to Harvard you egg!!</i></p><p>DELANY<br/>
<i>Hahaha too easy</i><br/>
<i>Also. Pretentious much</i></p><p>[omitted 9 messages discussing which party is more pretentious]</p>
<hr/><p>[Bon Appetit page ID: 0974afe6691f997f2b0a5507]</p><p>
  <b>Sweet Clarity</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Makes 1</b>
</p><p>There’s nothing clear in this drink, but it will help you think. It’s a great dessert for someone who’s already had dessert.</p><p>
  <b>
    <span class="u">JULY 2020</span>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>INGREDIENTS</b>
</p><p>2 sour cherries, stemmed and pitted<br/>
1 sugar cube (or ½ teaspoon sugar)<br/>
2 ounces whiskey (preferably Jameson)<br/>
¼ oz coffee liqueur<br/>
Dash of chocolate bitters<br/>
Garnish: orange peel</p><p>
  <b>RECIPE PREPARATION</b>
</p><p>Put cherries, sugar, and chocolate bitters in an old-fashioned glass. Muddle the cherries and sugar. Fill the glass with ice and add coffee liqueur and whiskey. Stir until the glass is frosty, about 12 stirs. Express orange peel oils onto rim of glass, then drop peel into glass.</p><p>
  <b>Recipe by Alex Delany</b>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. housed by your warmth, thus transformed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex Delany approaches the bar and waits there as its lone patron. The counter is stainless steel and clear save for a rumpled pile of white and gold fabric. Behind it lives a Brad Leone. He’s resting an elbow on the counter, other hand wiping a tea towel in aimless circles. He looks normal to Alex, at first, gubalini and all. Nothing out of place. But then Alex blinks, and suddenly Brad is wearing all black, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, a white clerical collar at his neck. And the room smells different now, like Pine-sol and stale carpet. </p><p>“Out with it.” Father Leone snaps his fingers at him. “There’s a long line behind you.”</p><p>There isn’t, Alex confirms, but he outs with it: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” A groan. “Don’t make me say it, I”—</p><p>“Ah bup bup!” Brad holds up a hand, stopping him. “<i>DontmakemesayitI</i>? Now I’m no rocket surgeon, but even I knows that ain’t a number.”</p><p>The answer comes out like water from a faucet: “15 years, 5 months, 21 days, 19 hours, 57 minutes. 11 seconds and counting.” </p><p>“Is it, though?” </p><p>Alex doesn’t know what that comment means, nor does he care. He’s taken to scanning the room again. It’s gray and sparse. Other patrons mill around, identically Brad Leone but without the priest get-up.</p><p>“Eyes on me,” Father Leone insists, gesturing with two fingers toward his own eyes and then to Alex’s. “Focus, buddy. The, uh, heg... the confession!”</p><p>Alex focuses. He doesn’t need to speak his confessions—all those thoughts get uploaded to Brad through their sustained eye contact. Those blue eyes of his… hmm, he’s never really...</p><p>“First of all, mmkay thank you, same to you—but I’m a priest! Fine fine, thoughts is thoughts. Eh, and, second of first, we’re getting off topic.” Brad points at Alex, nodding along to the beat of nonexistent music. “Don’t be stupid, Delany. You love her. You need to take care of her. Take care of her, or else, since uh, ‘cause I…” Brad trails off in a mumble.</p><p>He wants to ask, then, for Brad to speak up. But the bar priest throws a drink onto the bar in front of Alex. Instead of shattering, the glass bounces fluidly on the table before going still.</p><p>Alex samples the pour of clear liquid. “This isn’t red wine.” It isn’t even grape juice. It tastes like nothing at all.</p><p>“Why would it be? Whaddya think this is? Huh? Huh?” Brad’s getting aggressive now, antsy from being cooped up behind the bar too long. He slaps a napkin down on the table and then, with infinitely more care, places a single pretzel stick on the napkin. “Take your pretzel stick and go.”</p><p>“Go?” Alex looks around and confirms what he senses already: all of the tables and chairs have disappeared, along with the bar’s other occupants. “There’s nowhere else to sit.” He rocks back on his heels, going for the stool behind him—and stumbles, nearly falling on his ass. That stool is gone, too.</p><p>“That’s because you’re too late, man.” Brad waves the tea towel in air, flagging down no one. “Word of advice from me to you: timing. Word-zuh—plural—of advice from me to you: timing, is, everything.”</p><p>Only then does Alex notice the ticking sound that’s been getting louder and louder. Like an egg timer with the threat of an explosive. Fainter, in the background: sound of jackhammers against concrete; car horns honking; a police siren...</p><p>“This is a dream, isn’t it?” he realizes aloud.</p><p><i>“Delany!”</i> Father Leone growls at his nemesis-turned-patron. “You got to take up some ‘suduko’ or somethin’. Sharpen up that noggin of yours.”</p><p>A loud noise startles Alex. Without looking, he knows that someone’s kicked in the door of the bar from outside. </p><p>“Fongool!” Brad yells at the intruder. <i>“Mangia il mio metallo!”</i> A brilliant sword flashes into his grip.</p><p>Alex turns his head, desperate to glimpse the person who’s barged in. But no, his vision blurs… he’s fading, fading...</p>
<hr/><p>“A collaboration,” Claire repeats after him.</p><p>Adam Rapoport’s one-word reply floats in above his barrage of keystrokes: “Yes.” He’s too busy working, apparently, to even look away from his computer screen. </p><p>Claire jumps in quickly, only to trail off: “I don’t think that’s a…” Her drive to perform is clashing big time with her hatred of objectionable decisions from above her head. A good reason to not finish that sentence. </p><p>By Adam’s reaction, he hadn’t even heard her. </p><p>By Delany’s reaction, he’s read Claire for everything and won’t say anything of course he won’t he’s such a sweet—</p><p>“<i>I don’t think that’s a good idea,</i> is what Claire was trying to say,” Delany fills in, making eye contact with her instead of with Adam. The half-smile on his face says a lot of things but not ‘happy.’</p><p>Claire’s mouth opens, shuts. <i>Tell Delany you didn’t need or appreciate his ‘rescue.’ Tell Rapo you won’t do it.</i> As a contractor for Gourmet Makes, just decline...</p><p>Adam’s type-and-click subroutine stalls. A meeting reminder pops up on the corner of his Mac screen, simultaneous to his phone lighting up with an identical reminder. Only then does he turn to fix his two charges with his full presence. </p><p>“Saffitz. Delany. I’ve just fired off the details to your inboxes. It should be <i>abundantly</i> clear that this project will be a collaboration between <i>you</i>”—gesturing between them—“and not between <i>us</i>”—now including himself in the gesture. <i>“Therefore,</i> this is not a negotiable task. Therefore, do not bother to come at me with excuses. No time, don’t care.”</p><p>Claire’s attention falls from Rapo, vacantly, to the pen cup on his desk. If Delany wants to dig a deeper hole, she won’t take part in it.</p><p>Adam laces his hands behind his head. Eyebrows raised, a silent <i>well?</i> on his lips.</p><p>Nothing from Claire.</p><p>Delany gets up first. “Good talk,” he remarks, and remains the only person affable enough to sell those words as light-hearted. </p><p>Claire’s soul is crying out for space. She needs to be 121 light-years away from everyone else. Or at least, to be in a cold and safe place with fruits and vegetables. After a beat, she goes briskly out of Adam’s office, down the hallway, around the corner...</p><p>...and runs into a Delany-sized wall. </p><p>“Delany,” she tells his chest angrily, <i>“move.”</i></p><p>He’s what stands between her and the elevator ride to the test kitchen.</p><p>And he will not move. </p><p>“<i>That</i> could have just been an email”—inclining his head in the direction of Adam’s office—“right? Is he gonna sit everyone else for that, too?”</p><p>His jovial attitude sets off something in her. “This is <i>not</i> a good time. Get out of my way.” She tries to go around him for the stairwell, only to be blocked. Again. Her vision nearly whites out with rage. </p><p>“Okay sooo… when is a good time? Because clearly, we are still doing this from four days ago.” Delany folds his arms, becoming less Delany by the second. “I’ve always known when to leave you alone, Claire. Think you could humor me this one goddamn time.”</p><p>In her suddenly off-guard state, Claire’s rage flickers. Her shoulder finds support on the wall behind her. The energy in the test kitchen has been truly awful all morning. Everyone is either turning clipped phrases or not talking at all. No signs of friends. Only coworkers forced to share the same space. And now she’s brought out this side of her Alex Delany… this other side that can barely tolerate her...</p><p>Like a switch flipped, Delany moves out of her way and settles beside her. His back against the same wall, shoulders forming a more relaxed line. Claire watches him warily, like an animal who’s learned not to trust opened doors. </p><p>He waits for the swift merc’ing. For his head to be neatly excised from his neck and mounted on a spike and wheeled into the Gourmet Makes museum for display. </p><p>They’re both waiting, she thinks.</p><p>When Claire straightens up and starts walking in a pre-defined direction, with Delany following her, no one is surprised. </p><p> </p><p>The conference room of fate is empty. The air circulated overhead tastes sterile, and stark fluorescent lights lend a much less camera-friendly vibe to the room. Marks are hit as such: Claire in the far corner; Alex near the door, drumming his palms on a chair’s seatback. Neither of them will sit down, even though the table awaits. </p><p>“I didn’t like that,” Claire opens, referring to their confrontation after Adam’s meeting. </p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>She crosses her arms and repeats, quieter: “I didn’t like that.” This time referring to their text fight—and Alex gets it.</p><p>“Big nope.”</p><p>Sighing at length, Claire casts up at the ceiling. Those repeating units of perforated white tiles. Something’s funny to her. A giggle escapes her lips, followed by another, until she’s fully laughing to herself. Her final laugh disintegrates into overdramatic fake-sobs.</p><p>“Claire?” </p><p>She doesn’t know, either. She’s standing before the room’s whiteboard now, silent, half-facing Alex. Left hand closing, with determination, around the skinny red whiteboard marker—think fast Delany!</p><p>“Why did you duck?” Claire exclaims at him and she’s laughing and it’s the best sound in the whole world. “I wasn’t gonna throw it at you!”</p><p>“Family instinct,” he shrugs out. His sister has better aim than Claire Saffitz, too. For all his fast reflexes, he would have taken at least one of those variety-pack markers to the head.</p><p>Claire’s grip tightens around the red marker. The whiteboard is much bigger up close. An intimidating expanse of blankness interrupted only by the faint ghosts of previous marker-lines. Red cap comes off; marker tip goes to the board...</p><p>Alex falls in beside her to admire her finished work. On the left side of the board is a small line, wavy and river-like. Occupying the middle-right side of the board is a sprawling, meandering scribble punctuated with staccato point-marks. </p><p>“How very, uh, post-modernist. A pregnant reflection on… tempering chocolate and... the nature of time,” he comments distractedly, not even teasing Claire for her reaction to ‘pregnant.’ Something is coming back to him, in blurry starts and stops...</p><p>Claire decides with a shake of her head: “It’s nonsense,” and goes for the whiteboard eraser. </p><p>Alex’s hand stills her wrist. Her line of sight forms a triangle, drawn back and forth between his eyes—his lips—the closed door behind him.</p><p>“Leave it,” he tells her softly. “It’s good ambiance.”</p><p>After he’s let go of her wrist, she speaks: “Uh huh.” And slots the marker back where it was before, micro-adjusting its position more than necessary.</p><p>“You know, I had a very weird dream last night. You weren’t in it. But it was still about you,” he recalls aloud. “Oh hang on, there was a lot of Brad in it…? Huh. Anyway, I won’t tell you about it today.”</p><p>“Oh? When will you tell me?” A beat, and her eyes light up like she’s seen Rhoda, or a baby, or Rhoda bringing her a baby. “Wait, did you say ‘a lot of Brad’?” </p><p>
  <i>Ah shit. Could have processed more before saying anything. </i>
</p><p>Alex snaps his fingers and tells her the first number that comes to mind: “Fifteen years from now.” </p><p>
  <i>Mid-key not ready to touch that second question. High-key unsettled by her not roasting me for the Brad thing.</i>
</p><p>“Fifteen years, you say?” Claire’s phone is out of her pocket. Her fingers hurry across its haptic surface.</p><p>Alex catches a glimpse of her screen and leans back laughing. “What are you up to?” </p><p>“In exactly fifteen years from now, you’re gonna tell me all about your little dream. Sparing no detail.” And she shows him her calendar app opened to the same month/day in 2035. It holds a single reminder, set for 12:00 am, titled simply: <i>Delany dream. </i></p><p>Grinning, he points out: “You’re so not gonna remember what ‘Delany dream’ means by then.”</p><p>“Try me,” she returns confidently.</p><p>And even though they’re in a closed, windowless room in the middle of the day, Alex thinks there should be a purple-orange sunset streaming in. He leans in closer, closer-closer, thinking at full volume about green tea and jasmine and dark fluttering eyelashes. “I know you have a plan already, Professor Saffitz.”</p><p>“Uh huh…” she murmurs up at him, a sweet smile playing on her lips. </p><p>Alex snaps his fingers. “Focus. Project.”</p><p>Claire’s eyebrows fly up. In a flash she navigates to Rapo’s email and starts read-summarizing at a speed only she can pull off. “Okay, so! The test kitchen warriors plus Alex Delany”—(a wry aside at him)—“have been tasked with curating their own version of a three-course date night meal complete with selection of drinks or beverages. Everyone participating has been allocated to groups of three—huh, interesting, we’re the only group of two? Anyway, uh... each group must clear their plans with Rapoport no later than August 14th. See attached schedule of filming, yadda yadda. Let’s see, we’re up on, um... first day is September 3rd—oh wait, that’s your birthday! Aren’t you…”</p><p>Alex just listens to her talk. Listens to the voice that takes him places, that has him tracing, with fond eyes, a red scribble on a whiteboard. Wondering if there’s any way he won’t lose himself following that tangled path.</p><p>“...today is July 30th. So, Delany, if we can meet on July 31st, August 6th, and August 7th...”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>my FBI agent says i'm allowed to pseudocode one OT3. one one</p><p>final chapter dropping soon</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. on the inherently romantic nature of cardio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That morning, Claire wakes up before her alarm—something that happens every total solar eclipse or so. She would have fallen back asleep, she thinks, if not for checking her phone and seeing the text from Delany. It’s the briefest press release about how and when he’d ended things with Alison. Claire does the math and realizes that on the day they’d fought, he’d let her go off about him and Alison and hadn’t corrected her. Had been hush on it, in fact, for weeks. Until now. </p><p>Staring and staring at Delany’s featureless message, Claire fails to isolate a reaction. Is she happy? Is she hollow? </p><p>Regardless, a normal morning is forfeit.</p><p> </p><p>When Delany pokes his head into the test kitchen, Claire doesn’t overanalyze for once. She almost sells him on casual, too, if not for her current state: fumbling to tie her apron—in the front, no less—despite having done so a thousand times before. Damned film day nerves. Damned new aprons.</p><p>Yanking loose that failed apron bow-knot (asymmetrical, lost one loop), she goes for distraction-by-banter: “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”</p><p>“Neither did I.” He comes around to her. Sparkling with mischief, openly entertained by her struggle. “I’m in a hurry, but let me help.” </p><p>Before she can object, he’s circled behind her, a pure concentrate of presence. Knuckles brushing against the small of her back as he starts a bow there. Neat, thoughtful. Her peach-pink blouse, the thinnest layer separating her skin from his. The test kitchen suddenly feels poorly air-conditioned. Over her shoulder, Claire inhales orange peel and ozone. It’s a scent makes her brain shut down in sections, like lights going off in an empty office. <i>Has he always smelled this good? If so, what else haven’t I noticed?</i></p><p>
  <i>If I turn my head, I can kiss him right h—</i>
</p><p>“Done,” he says in a low voice, slowly releasing the strings and letting them fall. Instead of coming back around, he taps on her shoulder so that she has to spin to face him. Her glass jar of water is slid over on the counter and gathering condensation beneath his palm. Another non-negotiable offer.</p><p>She stands her ground, brow knit in confusion.</p><p>“Hydrate, Saffitz. No time to explain.”</p><p>Claire fishmouths at this cheerfully unyielding Alex Delany. “Fine.” She slugs some begrudging water until there’s a cue to put down her glass. Now shifting position: left hand on the counter to prop her up, right hand a fist against her hip. As if she’s afraid his strong vibes will straight up topple her. </p><p>“Good,” he shoots back in the same tone as her ‘fine.’ They’re not standing together at friends distance. They’re not even standing together at Delany-friends distance. No, he has to back up two steps so that he can extend his hand. “Now take my hand.”</p><p>She does so without question, surprising both of them. Her left hand in his right hand. It’s no handshake. If he shifts his fingertips just so, he’ll hit the hummingbird pulse in her wrist.</p><p>Gaze flitting between Delany’s face and their joined hands, Claire realizes what she’s agreed to. </p><p>Fact: her coworkers are some distance behind them, potentially witnessing this scene. </p><p>Fact: in her current state, she can’t name one of them. </p><p>With her free hand, she waves around to indicate their setting and the general breadth of her responsibilities today. “I can’t go with you. I, um, just got here and, I, um... film?” </p><p>Her Brad-style defense only deepens Delany’s amusement. He nods at the empty section in front of her counter. “With what crew? You’re <i>early.</i> Unseasonably so. It’s a sign from the universe.”</p><p>Claire’s mouth forms a capital O. No words come out.</p><p>Smirk of the wanted revolutionary Ó Dubhshláine. His gentle grip on her hand adjusts, lacing their fingers together tight—all she registers is <i>movement—</i></p><p>“We gotta gooo—!”</p><p>And then he’s pulling her, and they’re running. Or: Delany is running, and Claire is lurching, protesting. Firstly in regard to her short legs, and then about how they shouldn’t be running in the kitchen.</p><p>To her second point—they nearly bowl over a test kitchen assistant, and again with two other employees out in the hallway.</p><p>“Keep up, Half Point!”</p><p>Fast approaching the elevator.</p><p>“Out of order!” he whoops.</p><p>“What? No way, I just”—but they’re past that, now. In her peripheral vision, she catches the elevator doors opening, the barest edge of what must be her film crew—</p><p>Rounding out the corner to the stairwell now. She boggles at the threat of endless steps. No mercy, they’re already bounding down the stairs. Her hand still in his—he won’t let her go, not even for this part. Not even to relieve their difficult, increasingly sweaty grip. But soon her half-formed protests turn into shrieks of mirth, and he throws his head back laughing. Their crazed sounds dance around them in echoes.</p><p> </p><p>And so this freakish unit makes it down to the ground floor, drags through the lobby, dodges people out to fresh air. Not so fresh, actually. It’s <i>extremely</i> August. </p><p>At last, they can let go of each other’s hands.</p><p>“Why…” Hands braced against his knees, he can only speak in between panting. “...would you… go along with that?” Big breath. “You’re… insane, Saffitz.”</p><p>“Oh my—! You are—-!” A strangled noise, is what he is. She’s bent over double, too, and gasping.</p><p>Alex catches his breath first, craning up at their One World Trade Center. The building looks much taller than the last time they were there out here together. Did they seriously just run down 35 flights of stairs while holding hands? When he turns to her, she’s thinking the same thing, peering up at him through dark eyelashes.</p><p>“Why did you rush me out of there?” </p><p>His answer comes easily: “Trying to make up for lost time. Potentially in a big-move kinda way.” </p><p>He casts back to their months of night-texts. And the sheer obviousness of thinking about each other in those liminal hours. </p><p>“I don’t want you at night anymore.” Bad. Confused her. Try again, Delany: “I want you all the time, us in the world, broad daylight, rain or shine. I want you.”</p><p>Claire is speechless. Her face scrunches up, eyes coming up shiny. Alex is horrified. If he’s just made her cry in her public, he—</p><p>“God, I can’t believe this.” She sighs helplessly. “I had a whole speech prepared. Like, I knew exactly what I’d say in this moment. And you made me forget the entire thing!”</p><p>“Claire…”</p><p>Now she’s in his space, head pressed to his chest, wrapping him up in a UFC-worthy bodylock. Chasing that heady scent from before, citrus volatiles and sharp ozone. His white shirt clings to his skin, and she clings to him, very much sunstruck.</p><p>“Bastard,” she whispers into their embrace. The rumble of Alex’s laugh mixes with his lion-heartbeat against her ear.</p><p>But Claire does have some last-minute points to address. She pulls away to air her grievances.</p><p>“I’m sweaty and gross.”</p><p>“Same.”</p><p>“I’m wearing my apron.”</p><p>“Sexy.” He waits with his head cocked, completely moonstruck. “Anything else?”</p><p>She gets up on her toes and puts her hands on his shoulders. Her mind is quite gone. His hands come up to her waist, thumbing that strip of skin where her blouse rides up.</p><p>“Kiss me, Delany.”</p><p>But her lips go unkissed. “Delany? Don’t know ‘im.”</p><p>“Del—!” Her slip bitten off with a delirious laugh. “Alex,” she breathes. “The one and only. Alex, mine, AlexAl”—</p><p>He’s smiling against her mouth when their lips meet, sweet and hot. It’s the kiss of a dozen new drinks and a hundred new playlists. It goes on and on like the Time Life Ultimate Love Songs Collection commercial from his childhood <i>(“36 beautiful songs!”).</i> A stranger wolf-whistles at them. Pigeons are cooing. Dogs are barking. A different stranger passes by, ranting about politics. </p><p>All beautiful things. </p><p>Claire even tries for some tongue, but he has to nudge her face aside, half-feral and rambling about saving that for later. His mind is also quite gone.</p><p>And so she returns to settle against his chest. They’re swaying slightly, the subtlest slow dance to their own song that no one else can hear. Claire’s never been so relaxed in her life. Her words come out almost slurred. “D’ you think they hate me righ’ now?”</p><p>Alex, who’s been utterly lost in stroking Claire’s hair right where her silver starbursts out, has to mouth her words to understand them. When he speaks, his chin bumps the top of her head. “Your hype crew. Shit. We gotta go.”</p><p>She steps back and fixes him with a stern look. “Elevator.”</p><p>“Elevator,” he agrees, grinning. She’s smoothing her wild hair with one hand, other hand fanning uselessly at her August-flushed face. Mouth grumbling that she’s going to look a hot mess in front of millions of internet strangers. </p><p>His Claire Saffitz.</p><p>“Shall we?” He offers her the crook of his elbow. </p><p>Beaming, she accepts. “We shall.”</p><p>Alex Delany would like to revise his personal theory about summer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>all for now 🤙🏼 but hey was great to channel my inner white boy for y'all so who knows! how's my driving?</p><p>UPDATE 6/10/20: due to recent revelations  uhhh yeah I’m not touching BA ever again lol 🙃 This work stays up for now I guess</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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